


sojourn

by casualbird



Series: dedue week 2020 [5]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Post-Blue Lions Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Post-Canon, being fodlan's greatest power couple is a blessing and a curse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:13:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22188421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casualbird/pseuds/casualbird
Summary: “You and I, Dima... we will serve our motherlands for as long as they will have us.” He pauses, feeling Dimitri’s fingers curl tight against his own. “It is my favorite thing about you... I suppose it is my favorite thing about myself, as well.”In the midst of all their responsibility, Dedue and Dimitri steal some time for each other, for themselves.Written for Dedue Week day 5-- reunited.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Dedue Molinaro
Series: dedue week 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1593229
Comments: 14
Kudos: 57





	sojourn

“I missed you,” murmurs Dimitri, heedless that he’s said so scores of times in the hour since Dedue’s return to Fhirdiad. “I missed you _dearly,_ Dedue, husband of mine--you feel--”

And he trails off, curling tighter around the warmth of Dedue’s body, pressing his hot face, his uncovered tattered eye into the dip between his husband’s shoulder blades. Saturates himself with the smell of him, warm and gently spiced even under the sweat of their lovemaking, the staleness of an endless carriage ride.

Dedue breathes tidal into the pillow, teeth tight around the last of his composure. He lifts his arm, reaches back, splays his hand over Dimitri’s hip. It’s a comforting gesture, meant to soothe his love as much as it is to spur him on, to drive him deeper, quicker. More than anything, though, it’s to be _near_ to him, connected at every point that they can manage after being so distant for so long.

For moons, Dedue has been away, immersed in the Duscur restoration, turning his warrior’s hands to the healing of his home. Has had his hands in _everything,_ from town-hall meetings to official summits, the drafting of treaties. Has plowed fields and held orphan children with his own hands, has been to barn raisings and the dances that come after them. Dedue has built tent cities, served at soup kitchens, marveled at the bloom of Duscur poppies, consecrated graves.

And in all of it, Dimitri has been with him. Officially; they’d bandied messengers back and forth with drafts of the Duscur sovereignty treaty for ages, and Dimitri has sent money, supplies, carpenters and stonemasons, healers and teachers, has sent his _blessing._

Has sent his love, written in a halting hand on fine vellum paper, splattered with ink where, in his flusterment, he has snapped scores of brittle quills. Has lamented the wearying dance of court life; the sniping, snipping protests of old-guard nobles who hiss at the thought of representative government.

He’s lamented most, though, that Dedue cannot stand at his right hand through this, cannot speak softly, steadily into Dimitri’s ear when it all feels too much. That Dimitri cannot do the same for _him;_ cannot offer comfort for the pain of the past, the overwhelm of the present. Cannot tell him, in his own clear voice, how he is worthy and capable and cherished, how he is so fathomlessly loved.

He can put these sentiments to paper--they both can, and they have, and they will never, ever stop--but Dimitri cannot underscore them with his touch, with his scars laid against Dedue’s, around him and above him and inside him.

So they make up for lost time, retreating straight from the palace foyer to Dimitri’s plush bed, rich and luxuriant and, with Dedue’s body restored to it, no longer cold.  
Dimitri sighs into the skin of his back, shifts to cross their arms at the elbows as he curls his around Dedue, taking him carefully in hand, stroking him slow where he needs it.

“Dima,” Dedue whines, and there’s nothing that could make him reticent in this moment--anything that’s ever told him not to be too familiar, to hide and to hedge, is all drowned out by Dimitri inside him, Dimitri’s big warm hand around him, Dimitri’s heartbeat thrumming through their skin. _“Dima,”_ he repeats, breathless, under the sound of his husband’s gasping little cries, “--waited for you, wanted you. Needed you, Dima, did you need me too?”

“Every day,” Dimitri says, his mouth hot and open against Dedue’s shoulder, and Dedue wants to apologize to him, to hold him close and repent not being there for him. Wants to be held himself, to cling to his husband like moss to a rock, like two quilt-squares sewn together.

“Hold me,” he whispers, even though Dimitri already is, even though he wouldn’t dream of letting go. Even though there is no physical way they can be closer.

Dimitri nods anyway, skin dragging slow across skin, pressing in deep and _staying_ there, and they find their release that way, trembling, crying out each other’s names.

They do not move apart for a long time after, lying in that same tangle as they catch their breath, as their heartbeats slip steady and fall into step.

“The election is... going to be soon,” Dimitri murmurs, though they both already know. They wrote the treaty together, after all, and the date of Duscur’s sovereignty has been inked onto Dedue’s heart, carved into every last one of his bones ever since. All they need before then is a couple of moons of formalities, and a leader.

“They’ll want you for Prime Minister,” Dimitri adds, and this, too, is a given. Dedue, after all, has done everything. Has been there for years, marshaled Duscur from a burned-out husk to--to the way it stands today; imperfect, incomplete, but _standing._

“They may,” says Dedue, twining his fingers with Dimitri’s, lifting their hands to his lips so he can kiss Dimitri’s knuckles. It’s a familiar gesture, comforting. Dimitri sighs softly, lovingly, bittersweet across his back, and so Dedue kisses him again.

“You and I, Dima... we will serve our motherlands for as long as they will have us.” He pauses, feeling Dimitri’s fingers curl tight against his own. “It is my favorite thing about you... I suppose it is my favorite thing about myself, as well.”

Dedue can tell Dimitri’s smiling, can feel the curving of his lips where they lay against his skin.

“Your devotion to Duscur, and mine to Faerghus, to Fódlan--will keep us apart. And I can’t say that I don’t hate that. I can’t say that I don’t hate lying in this bed alone, wondering if--if you can sleep. If you’re having nightmares, the way I sometimes do. If you... _need_ me.” His breath shakes in his throat once more, and Dedue croons to him, murmuring comfort.

“But you’re right, Dedue, you’re always right. Goddess, but I love the way you’re always right,” he sighs, and kisses the nape of his husband’s neck, paying no mind to the silken hair that falls over his face.

“And you’ll always be-- my only.” He falters when he says it, the words lifted straight from his proposal, from their wedding vows, from the salutation and signoff of every letter they have sent since. “And we will... be together, like this, when we can. We will _make_ time,” he insists.

“And perhaps, someday, it will be different. You and I will be able to... grow old together. Once we’ve accomplished everything we’ve set out to do. I know that day will come, Dedue, I never used to think it would, but... we’ve come so far already.”

“Dima,” Dedue whispers, because his eyes are wet, because he can feel himself overflowing.

“I am so proud of you, Dedue,” Dimitri tells him, and though his voice is pillow-soft, it is no less firm and sure than scripture. “I am... proud of myself.”

And Dedue really does shed a tear at that, sniffling, and Dimitri reaches his hand up slow and cautios to wipe it away with the backs of scarred, loving fingers.

“I am proud of us as well, my only. Rest now. We have time together yet. It will--everything will be alright.”

And Dedue, reflects Dimitri, as warmth and love and exhaustion overtake him, really is always right.

**Author's Note:**

> uhhhhhhh husbands. that's all.
> 
> let me know what you thought about this piece, and if you'd like, come hang out with me on [twitter!](https://twitter.com/bird_scribbles)
> 
> thanks!


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